Hello Fall!

“She enjoys rain for its wetness, winter for its cold, summer for its heat. She loves rainbows as much for fading as for their brilliance. It is easy for her, she opens her heart and accepts everything.”

-Morgan Llywelyn, Bard: The Odyssey of the Irish



But for me, I accept Fall a little more.

The nights are cooled, air softly chilling the trees, the ground, the toys that got left outside.

Hello Fall! I want to live in your indention with my sweater and scarf and heap of leaves with a warm drink that I will be careful not to spill.

These months are cozy and they draw me in with palms open and fingers stretched outwards. Music is louder, pumpkin is in all my foods, boots get pulled on.

Hello Fall.

Because I live in Southern California, my fall is a estranged cousin of real fall. My fall is mild temperatures and superfluous scarfs and gloves, but we wear them anyway, because we want to feel like we’re part of something. We sip hot beverages and sit by the fire because it’s iconic. We go to pumpkin patches in mall parking lots where a tarp is laid down, then wood shavings, and finally scattered pumpkins that were shipped in from Illinois. We crunch over the wood, tricking our senses. We’re not really in a mall parking lot, we are in the woods, we brought our knife, and we will find the perfect gourd and slice it off the vine.

The glow of the Sears sign snaps us back, and reality settles in. We find our pumpkin next to a Prius, and then buy it for 26 dollars.

Hello Fall.


Sometimes I wish for an off button. A time where I don’t have to mother. Where I don’t have to count to three or remind my preschooler to wash his hands after he scratches his testicles.


Because that’s gross, and now you have ball sweat under your fingernails.

What’s ball sweat?


I feel like it’s hard right now. There’s always something that must be done, and my body hurts, and my stomach is hungry. But their needs are immediate, and mine can wait.

Sometimes I yell, because I’ve said it four times already to find your shoes and get into the car. Yet the shoes are unfound and the car is empty. And then my mouth opens and the words fall out, they are angry and threatening. Because I am angry.

But I press on, considering this time to be the hardest. I keep telling myself that this is hard, and soon it will be light and I’ll try to remember the hard, because I will be alone and lonely, and I’ll crave the gentle sound of a baby squealing.IMG_3253

Sometimes I just want to be alone in a room with my own thoughts, thoughts that are careless and wandering. What would I think of if I didn’t have small children to occupy my mind?

Would I think of travel, or new shoes, or llamas, or clouds?IMG_3188

I think I would think of freedom. The thought billows around my mind, and presses against my skull, looking for a way out.

Being a mom feels like wearing a chain. A chain that connects me to three little people, that I put on like a piece of jewelry, and I feel its weight on my skin. It’s heavy, although I never take it off. It connects me to their heartbeats, their words, their hands. And then I think of the great pleasure it is raising children. The discoveries, the newness, the wildness. Their world is huge, but then it isn’t. It’s this home, it’s their room, it’s the space between us when we hug and don’t let go. Where little hands wrap tighter around my neck, where their sweet voice whispers in my ear, “I love you mommy,” without prompting, because there is so much love and it can’t be held in. It must spill out, of their mouths, out of their arms, because their world is huge, and small at the same time.

I wear their love like a chain that I can never take off. Even though it’s heavy, I never want take it off.  Day dreams and unfettered thoughts of llamas will just have to wait, because I’m busy bringing up babies, and babies don’t keep.


What I Wore Wednesday

Today’s What I Wore Wednesday is brought to you by the letter C and the word comfort.

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Because, you guys, I’m basically wearing pajamas.

Cozy pants with an elastic waist band to accommodate the occasional handful of chocolate chip cookies as the mood strikes, from Nordstrom.

T-shirt that I cut the neck and sleeves off of, and I sometimes wear while sleeping, from Ever.

Sleeveless sweater from Ever that also doubles as a nursing cover?  Yessss ma’am.

Favorite boots in the whole wide world, from Zara.

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Floating Airplants: Flora in the Hallway

airplants: hippobrigade.com

Over the weekend, we noticed our hallway was sad, and lonely and needed something.


Photos are too conventional and expected, so we headed over to the gardening store and bought some airplants. The fantastic thing about airplants is they don’t need soil to survive. They’re minimal, and simple, and that’s just how I like it.


My smart husband decided the best way to hang them would be a few hook and eye screws. To which I replied, “GENIUS!” And we got started.


I served project manager, as Pat measured, mathed, and twisted those suckers into the wall.

…And voilà!

Or should I say,



To keep them alive and majestic, I have to soak them overnight every two weeks.



Let them dry.


And enjoy!


Now I want more.

A Salute to Saturday Mornings



A tiptoe into a soft creation of new

A hand shake and mucho gusto

Pleased to meet you, today.

Sun is gentle, light

Pressing itself in between the cracks in the windows, pouring in, like it’s made of liquid, until it floods the room.


On weekdays our mornings are frantic and hurried.

Lunches get packed, heads get kissed, and we’re out the door.

Forgotten dishes still warm with oatmeal will get hardened in the sink as the car is put in reverse.

Here we go.

Bump. Bump, vroom.


But Saturday morning is what mornings are made of. Spun from sun and silk and sleeping in, and Saturday.

Oh sweet Saturday.

We celebrate with charisma, and the warm sound of a fresh record plays the soundtrack of our day. We celebrate with a box of sweetness or a walk to a new place, an adventure where we all get along, we gravitate towards love, and kisses, and goodness. Because there is nothing to do except be alive.

We draw a breath, hold it in our lungs until our sides feel like bursting, then let it out in a release.

This is it.

We are it.


Sweet Saturday.


What I Wore Wednesday

It dawned on me that I’m wearing things on Wednesday, well, all the days actually, and I’m not telling you about it and that has to change.

Also, I started my Bible study group back up on Wednesdays, so it works out that I’m usually presentable enough to be socializing in public and sharing what I look like with you.

And now, I present to you what I look like today:

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Hudson is taking my photos and I’m afraid he’s going to drop the phone, hence my awkward grabby hand.

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I’m wearing my most favorite outfit ever. It’s a denim onsie? Mechanic coveralls? Farmer overalls?

Whatever it is it’s cozy as heck, and easy to wear.

Only bummer is my butt looks awful in it, so please don’t spend time looking back there.

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Overalls: Anthropologie

Boots: Zara

Black lace bandeau: Free People

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What are you guys wearing today?

Adventures in Sewing

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When we finally realized that the sun from Silas’ East facing window was waking him up every morning, I started to look for some curtains to keep it dark, so the whole house could sleep in a little bit.

Teensy bit.


Much like being alone while pooping, sleeping until 7:25 is a luxury that I rarely get to indulge in.

After looking at Anthropologie and Land of Nod for cute curtains, I cried a little bit, because Anthro wants $250.00 per panel. That’s $500.00 bucks for curtains people!

Enter Ikea.

I keep trying to quit Ikea, but I’m a glutton for their meatballs, and I keep coming back for more. Just kidding their meatballs are gross, I like the rediculously low prices, and trying to pronounce their Swedish products.



So I bribed my tribe with soft serve, and took them to Ikea, they bounced on beds and smacked chairs, and I searched out the perfect curtains.
I was unimpressed with their selection, so I bought 5 yards of fabric instead, because I’m really good at sewing.

Except not at all. My mom never sewed. And my step-mom is a wizard seamstress, and tried to teach me once, but all I heard was measure this and mathematic that, and really I’m not much of a numbers girl. I enjoy the tried and true “eyeball” method for most things in my life.

But now I was the proud owner of 5 yards of fabric, and I had some eyeballing and sewing to do.

Also, 5 yards of fabric for $25.00!

So for $25.00 you’d better believe I was going to sew the crap out of that fabric.

Anthropologie can shove it. I didn’t want your whimsical bird curtains anyways.



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But don’t behold too closely, because you’ll see my shoddy workmanship:

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That Time I was in a Modeling Class

So I’ve already established that I’m not a soccer mom. But I keep feeling this nagging sensation that I need to enroll my daughter into some extracurricular activity.

I think it’s because when I was younger I was in a ton of stuff.

It was probably because my mom needed a break from my energy.

I was a bit of a handful.

The problem with all my extracurriculars, was that I was never in them long enough to get good or to make friends. I just jumped from thing to thing avoiding recitals or end of the year parties, awkward hand shakes or promises to call over the summer.

Between the ages of 7-10 I was in tap, ballet, softball, gymnastics, piano, and modeling.

The modeling class was the worst. I don’t know what convinced me to sign up for it. It was the early nineties and I was a gawky pre-teen: permed hair and a unibrow, long limbs and high waisted jean shorts, Keds and snap-at-the-crotch body suits.

The modeling class was supposed to teach poise and confidence; how to answer interview questions and walk a runway. I can imagine the people running the class were just as confused as we, the students, were. They had to try to find “modeling” curriculum for a bunch of 10-12 year old girls with self-esteem issues for an hour every Thursday night in the Jewish temple rec-room before the janitor came through with his vacuum. And we just sat fidgeting, with our chairs in a circle, sharing with the class on what modeling meant to us.

One night we did a video interview. I had to answer questions like, if you wearing a forest green silk vest, what accessories would you match with it.

The answer was, duh, a burgundy corduroy scrunchie and plastic hoop earrings.

Another night was spent determining what our seasonal color pallet was.

Obviously, I was an autumn.

Then there was figuring out what your best angles were during a photo shoot.

And the last night was runway.

Walk, walk, walk, pose, pivot, pose, pivot, walk walk walk.

Complete waste of time.

Especially since they told me that at 5’2 I would never be a runway model.

Oh the agony.

I could have been watching Saved by the Bell or shoving the cat in the drawer where I keep my stretchy leggings.

But as it turns out, I proved them wrong because since then I’ve walked two runways. That’s right people, I am basically Gisele Bundchen. So thank you modeling class of ’91, you were worth the 53 dollars and voucher for 25% off at Glamour Shots.

In college I walked in my friend’s fashion show.

I think I wore a cut up sweater that said Jesus loves me.

And while I was at Paul Mitchell the School, I was asked to do a hair show.

I had to walk a wobbly runway with a Lichtenstein inspired mini-dress with orange hair while hair professionals from all over the country took pictures with their flip camera phones.

I’m the one in the red dress with the pink blanket on my lap. We all have a variation of a bowl cut.

Growing that one out was rough.


And there I am in the middle.


(The shortest one)

Now I wonder if that voucher for Glamour Shots is still good…

a note to my husband on love

We brought these kids to life, you and I.


Living breathing people. Humans with teeth and hair and elbows and we did that. They were nothing but a sliver of love on a branch that was made into a swing that we sat on one day when you proposed to me, and now they are all here, in our rooms, vibrating our walls with their sounds and tears, and their laughter that causes my lips to pull up at the sides and my skin to shimmer with a chill. God is here too. He is our ultimate parent. Breathing life into our bodies and creating us to dance and feel and taste and joy. Oh joy.

But why? I think for love.

It’s all for naught if there is no love.

It beams out of us like rays of sunshine on a day when there are clouds, and you think you don’t need your sunglasses, but then the sun comes through and it makes you squint, and then you’re reaching into your bag and your fingers search for your glasses, because your eyes hurt from the brightness. It’s like that. Love.

For me it’s these tangled moments where all this stuff is happening around me and dinner is on the stove and the baby has his hand in the dog’s water bowl and the older kids are arguing over a green marker and then the late afternoon sun comes through the window. It’s filtered light shining all over the messy table and bouncing around the room, and I realize that I’m in love. With the noise and the chaos and the voices because they are my voices. They are our legacy. They are our love.


Our living love shooting around our house with teeth and hair and elbows.

And I am in love.

Back to School

So, it just got real.

All of it.



Because school is back in session, lunches need to be packed, and kids need to be driven around places, which is weird, because I have a first grader now, and if she can handle reading chapter books and adding three-digit numbers together, I’m pretty sure she can handle a stick shift. No? Maybe next year. Arn’t kids in Kansas driving their tractors to school at age 8? Maybe we should move to Kansas. Whatever.

Oh and a note about lunches: I packed some chocolate chip bunny graham crackers as Berlyn’s snack the other day.


I’m almost positive those are healthy because I bought them at Whole Foods, plus they say “homegrown” right on the box, and I’m pretty sure that means vegetables are used in the recipe. And as my daughter was delightfully munching her crackers on the very first day of school, a teacher wanders over and tells her that tomorrow she needs to bring a healthier snack.


This is coming from a school where other student’s parents send them off with extra nacho cheese Doritos, and Pop Tarts, and chocolate milk. The same school who feeds my daughter brightly frosted cupcakes from the grocery store and doughnuts and Kool-Aid and Nestle Toll House ice cream sandwiches on “ice cream Fridays” and you’re telling me that my snack isn’t healthy enough for her?!




Not cool school. Not cool.

So my days have moved from being lazy and weird and purposeless to hurried and crazy. We’re mostly late and I’m going to forget when it’s bring a show-and-tell, and is a frozen burrito an acceptable lunch for a three-year old? They have access to microwaves, right?

Yup, my three-year old started school.



He’s preschooling it like a boss. Pat and I dropped him off on the first day and he was all, peace out M and D. I got this. So then Pat and I shrugged, gave each other a high-five and then went out for pancakes.

Now two-thirds of my children are in school, and for a few hours every other day excluding holidays and weekends, it is peaceful. Well, that is if Silas naps. THEN, oh, sweet then, is when it is truly peaceful. So that’s what my September through June looks like. And if you want to hang out with me, then you have to meet me somewhere no farther than 10 minutes from my house on a Tuesday or Thursday in between 10:30 and 11:30. Sound good? Great.

And we’ll cheers to a new school year.


With our latte cups of course.